


The Other Side of Joy

by novemberhush



Series: Father's Joy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Babyfic, But Johnny boy had some things he needed to get off his chest it seems, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of war and PTSD and nightmares, More angst than i originally intended, More fluff than the lint screen of a tumble dryer, Once Sherlock finally shut up and I could actually hear him that is, POV John Watson, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 10:18:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8324077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novemberhush/pseuds/novemberhush
Summary: John Watson is moving back into Baker Street, but he's not going alone. He's bringing his daughter with him, and he knows that terrifies Sherlock. Because she's also the daughter of the woman who shot Sherlock and almost tore him and John apart forever. He knows Sherlock will try to love her, but what if he can't? He isn't worried about his daughter not loving Sherlock because she's a part of John and there's never been a part of John that didn't love Sherlock. (Not even when he's wanted to kill the annoying tosser.) Can they pull off one more miracle and make a life together, John and Sherlock and Baby makes three?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this was a labour of love somewhat. I had the idea to tell John's side of a story I wrote called 'Father's Joy' that was originally from Sherlock's POV. When I sat down to write it, however, Sherlock wouldn't shut up! But, I persevered and wrote the story (twice!), but it didn't feel right. So I let it sit a while, came back to it and this poured out! Turns out John needed to talk about a few things before he made it back to Baker Street. Oh, and they never tell us in the show where John and Mary live in London so for the purposes of this story I went with Southwark. I did a little research and it seemed like an area that would appeal to them and fall within their financial range. However, any Londoners out there might be able to tell me otherwise so if I'm way off base choosing it I hope you'll forgive me. Thank you for reading and thanks to Sairyn and writingtoreachyou for the combined beta on my first two attempts. I didn't get this one betaed as I just needed to get it out there, as is, so any and all mistakes are, as ever, my own. Unlike the characters, who I'm just borrowing for a while. All right, I'm shutting up now before I completely turn you off reading this! ;-)

  
John didn’t sleep last night. He should be used to that, he supposes. And if he’s not then he should _get_ used to it. He's the father of a newborn, after all. No, scratch that. He's the _single_ father of a newborn, and while his daughter may look like an angel, he doesn't expect her to always behave like one. Two years of staring at the ceiling, wondering which of them would crack first (John knew who he'd have put his money on), as images of the battlefield played out again and again before his dimmed and heavy eyes should stand him in good stead for the sleepless nights to come though, he reckons.

Of course, these images, this battlefield, weren't the same as the ones that had invaded his dreams and disrupted his sleep in the years before a chance meeting with an old friend had led him to another fateful meeting. A meeting with the most arrogant, annoying, frustrating, intriguing, exciting, brilliant, beautiful dickhead John has ever had the privilege of knowing. A meeting which led to him not only agreeing to move in with said dickhead, but to John's killing a man to save him (not a very nice man and certainly one John knew he wouldn't be adding to his list of things to lose sleep over, but still, as gestures go it was a pretty damn big one) within little more than twenty four hours of that first meeting. A meeting which gave John a renewed purpose in life and seemed to deliver him from the demons that haunted his dreams at night.

Life at Baker Street, life with a genius consulting detective, the only one in the world (one was all John needed), chased away visions of sand and blood and marketplaces devastated by suicide bombers. Drove out images of the carnage caused by a roadside bomb, of the bodies of comrades, of _friends_ , riddled with bullets from AK-47s or dead from one well-aimed sniper rifle successfully cobbled together from bits of other weapons dating back to other wars, long since over, but never really won, in the back room of some harmless-looking mini-mart in Kandahar. John didn't forget after he met Sherlock. Some things can never be forgotten, nor ever should be. But sooner than he would have ever thought possible he found himself no longer dreading falling asleep. No longer waking drenched in sweat, feeling the grit of the desert on the back of his neck and the warmth of his blood as it pumped out of his body and seeped through the fingers he pressed against his wound before he had passed out from the pain and shock. After he met Sherlock, though, other images began to fill his dreams...

Images of elegant hands sawing a bow over the strings of a violin at lightning speed, sending notes careening into the air in glorious, riotous abandon one moment, then slowly teasing an achingly beautiful melody from it the next. An inviting mop of dark hair bent over a microscope at the kitchen table, pale, swanlike neck rising from the collar of a slim fit purple shirt as long, slender fingers gently adjusted the fine detail dial, bringing all sorts of things into sharp focus.

Things like a mouth John had never seen the like of before, Cupid's bow lips crying out to be kissed and over which the most amazing deductions and incredible insights (and, yes, insults too) spilled day after day. Like creamy, delicate skin, soft over dangerously sharp cheekbones. A pair of astonishing eyes, exquisite and ever-changing, grey as an October morning one day, green as April leaves the next, a cool blue so unique to Sherlock John could find nothing to compare to it the one after that. (Bit much? Laying it on too thick? Well, John's a romantic, it's what they do. According to Sherlock, anyway.)

Things like never having laughed this much with anyone before (or been this infuriated by). Like watching in awe as that fantastic brain put all the pieces of a hitherto unfathomable mystery together right in front of him. Things like a feeling of only really having come home the day he met Sherlock and not the day he was taken off a military transport, still strapped to a stretcher, but already knowing his army career was over and any dream he may have had of becoming a surgeon in civilian life along with it.

But then Sherlock had jumped and images of the battlefield returned to haunt John's nights again. It was a different battlefield John was tormented by then, though. No longer the heat and sand of Afghanistan, but the cold, grey streets of London instead.

No longer trying to coax information from people weary of war and wary of uniforms, but buying it from those society would rather turn a blind eye to. An entire network of the homeless, living on the streets due to neglect, abuse, bad luck, bad decisions or some twisted combination of any or all those things. And, asleep or awake, John was aware how many veterans end up in that position. How many people with a history of drug abuse. He knows how easily either he or Sherlock could have ended up on the fringes of society and some nights that's what he saw when he closed his eyes. Sherlock, cold and thin and dead, a needle in his arm, John oblivious, passed out by his side from some cheap hooch he had managed to scrape together the money to buy.

Other nights it wasn't foot patrols in Helmand gone wrong anymore, but rooftop chases that resulted in John standing by, watching helplessly, as the person he loved and cared about most in the world disappeared over the side of a London high-rise. Or the red dot of the latest hi-tech, state of the art sniper's rifle finding its target, right between Sherlock's wondrous eyes, before the unknown, unseen assassin pulled the trigger, as John stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or even scream out a warning. That one took over from the dream John used to have of standing over a fallen brother in arms on a makeshift operating table in a mobile army hospital and not being able to lift his hands to help him.

Sometimes it was hitmen of gargantuan proportions snapping a slim frame in two, a frame John had found himself imagining what it might be like to know every contour of more times than he cared to admit, as easily as John snapped pencils whenever Sherlock had started in on yet another diatribe on the idiocy of caring, or breadsticks at Angelo's when he was trying to cajole him into eating a bit ("Eat, you pillock. You're no good to anyone if you pass out from hunger or low blood sugar. Please, Sherlock. For me.")

And the one image that had plagued him the most, overshadowing his every moment, his every breath, keeping him awake until his body could stand it no longer and then stalking his dreams. The one image that even now, after the passage of more than two years and the discovery it had all been a magic trick, John suspects will never quite leave him, will be with him until the end of his days - Sherlock, atop the roof of Bart's Hospital, the very place he and John had met for the first time, whispering goodbye, followed by John's name, the name he usually loved hearing uttered in that deep, distinctive voice, but which he hated with every fibre of his being in that moment, John calling out to him, begging, pleading.

Then silence. Silence as he watched a figure in the distance stretch out his arms, step off a building and hurtle to the ground. And then the silence punctuated by a sickening thud, the beautiful sentence that was John's time with Sherlock brought to a screeching halt by a grotesque full stop. John running, able to move at last, but too late, always too late. Followed by hands, so many hands, strangers' hands, the _wrong_ hands, on him, holding him back, keeping him from Sherlock. But through the throng of legs around him, obscuring his line of sight, he catches glimpses. Grey concrete. A navy overcoat. Dark hair. Pale skin. _Blood_. Red and terrible and _wrong_ , so wrong. John hates red now.

He usually woke with a start then, Sherlock's name on his lips, hair plastered to his head with sweat, pillow damp from tears and voice hoarse from screaming. Sherlock's name, over and over again. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._ But only the ceiling was there looking down at him. Cold and unfeeling and ghostly white. _Genuinely_ cold and unfeeling. Not like the pale, extraordinary face that had looked down at him so many times in the past, _alive_ and _vital_ and so full of feeling, no matter how much its owner had asserted otherwise. Jesus, the way Sherlock had looked at him. John had thought he might miss that most of all.

But last night’s wakefulness wasn’t due to any of those dreams, or the fear of them, keeping him up. And it wasn't an fretting baby keeping him up either. Well, not literally anyway.

John had spent the night in the house (he never could call it a home) he’d shared with Mary. It would be the last night he ever spent there and he couldn’t wait to leave. His late wife’s presence loomed large over the place even yet and he felt if he could only get away from that house he could start to heal and forget. They all could. Pretend like none of it had ever happened. Except it _had_ happened. John’s daughter, Sherlock’s scar and both men’s bruised hearts and battered psyches are proof of that. Pretending isn’t an option anymore. In so many ways.

Still, at least the insidious cancer that had threatened to destroy everything John held dear had been surgically removed. By John himself, of course, because that's just how his luck goes (typical, eh?), and with a bullet not a scalpel, but the same end result. He hadn't seen it coming, and yet in so many ways it felt almost inevitable somehow from the moment he found out Mary had been the one who'd shot and almost killed Sherlock. Almost took him away from John again, permanently this time.

He could sleep easy now for the first time in years, knowing both his daughter and his closest friend were safe from the monster he had married (married because it was Sherlock who had been too late that time and John had felt obligated, and, if he's honest, maybe like punishing Sherlock a little too, which, granted, felt a lot like cutting your nose off to spite your face). That was the theory anyway, and for the most part it had proven true. Right up until last night when John once again found himself engaging the ceiling in another all night staring contest. (It didn’t blink once, the bastard.)

Abigail was still in the hospital, and although Sherlock may do a good impression of a spoilt child on an almost daily basis, he wasn’t there to disturb John’s sleep either, being (presumably) at Baker Street. But then, Sherlock’s never actually needed to physically be there to keep John up at night, has he? No, neither of these two cherished people ( _children_ , John thinks, with a small smile), who John would die for, would kill for, _has_ killed for, were there with him last night. It didn’t stop them from keeping him up, though.

It wasn’t because of the nightmares that have resurfaced to terrorise him since the showdown in Surrey, if that’s what you were thinking. The showdown that saw him shoot his lying wife in order to save Sherlock. A choice he would make a million times over, by the way, in case there was any doubt. Which there probably wasn’t. Everyone who knew them knew who John would choose if it ever _really_ came down to it, and, bloody hell, had it come down to it. No, last night there were no images of a bolshy blonde holding a gun to a nest of dark, silken curls. No images of John being too slow to pull his own gun from his waistband this time and having to watch as Sherlock slumped, somehow elegantly even then, to the ground and those same curls became dull and matted with pooling crimson. Even that old standby of a familiar (beloved) silhouette in a billowing navy blue Belstaff plummeting from the roof of Bart’s was kept at bay, not by any newfound sense of peace, but by sheer inability to sleep.

‘Sleepless in Southwark’ John had dubbed himself at one point, dawn creeping over the horizon and Mary’s side of the bed. A hard, mirthless laugh had escaped him as he wondered if he was Meg Ryan or Tom Hanks in that scenario and then remembered Hanks had been the widower with a child. Ha ha, yeah, thanks for making him watch that one, ex-girlfriend whose name John couldn’t recall. Sandra? Susan? Something like that. He _did_ recall, however, being absurdly grateful for Sherlock bursting in on them (funny how often that happened when he was on a date), all cheekbones, collar and coat, and effectively rescuing him from chick flick hell by declaring he finally had a lead on the Sutton Strangler and demanding John come with him at once. Probably not the Valentine’s Day Sharon ( _Sharon!_ That was it!) had been looking forward to, but it was the best one John ever had. Well, once he’d ditched the soon forgotten, easily forsaken Sharon (skipping out before the end of the film actually, but he’s fairly sure he can guess how it ended) and taken off in pursuit of one madman with another by his side. Good times. The very best of times.

John was aware of the reason for his restlessness. He’s not actually the idiot people sometimes take him for. He was nervous, and not about facing nightmares or the spectre of his dead wife, dreadful as both those things are.

No, John didn’t sleep last night because today is the day. The day he moves back into Baker Street. _Home_ , the day he moves back _home_. Returned to his rightful place (by Sherlock’s side, always by Sherlock). But he’s not going alone this time. He’s bringing Abigail, his dear, sweet, please don’t let her be anything like her mother, Abigail with him. He could have moved back in sooner, but the house had been nearer the hospital and, besides, he and Abigail were a package deal now. It was best to establish that right from the off, he felt. Anyway, it didn’t feel right moving in without her. So now the two most important people in his life are about to meet for the first time, circumstances (and, John knows, a certain wariness on Sherlock’s part) having gotten in the way of introductions before and, yeah, he’s a little nervous. Mainly because he knows Sherlock is nervous; or rather, terrified.

He’s tried to hide it, but John can tell. And he understands. Sherlock has invited him back to Baker Street, baby and all, and did so without a second thought the moment John told him he could never take Abigail back to the house he had shared with that psychopath he had married. John had had his concerns, of course. Oh, there was nothing he wanted more than to take Abigail and Sherlock back to 221B Baker Street, bar the door and never let them out of his sight again, but he was a father now. Abigail's wellbeing had to come before the secret desires of John's heart. Sherlock, however, got his way, as usual. Always his way, with promises never to touch drugs again, to never expose Abigail to them or himself or anyone else under the influence of them. With a vow to always be there for her, to protect her always. A solemn oath. And John had believed him.

But Sherlock can hardly be expected to forget that psychopath John married was the mother of this child he’s welcoming into his home, into his _life_ , or to forget what she did to him. Some things can’t be deleted, no matter how hard we try. John’s never forgotten and he isn’t the one who took a bullet that nearly killed him, even if it had felt like he had when he saw Sherlock lying there, shirt bloody, pulse thready and Mary’s perfume still in the air. John doubts there will ever again come a time when he can catch a whiff of it and not be overcome by a wave of nausea, repulsion and regret.

Forgive him, then, if he’s just a tad bit worried. He loves Sherlock, God knows he does. Okay, okay, so bloody _everybody_ knows he does. He’s faced up to it now too, all right? And not just alone at night in bed, images of Sherlock tumbling around in his head, urging him to seek out a release he would refuse to acknowledge come the light of day. That's over with now. No more denying to himself exactly what the nature of his feelings for Sherlock are. No more being ashamed of either the physical or emotional response the other man provokes in him. (And, believe you him, Sherlock can be very provoking.) No more swimming in something that isn’t just a river in Egypt for him, thank you very much. Been there, done that, bought the ‘no homo’-emblazoned t-shirt that fooled precisely no one. Disguises are a self-portrait and all that … malarkey.

And if everyone can tell, can see that he’s come to terms with who he is and who he loves, well, so be it. Maybe it'd make them all happy to be proved right at last, at least about John, because who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes? Donovan might even get all those ‘so deep in the closet he’s found Narnia’ jokes out of her system finally. Not that he gives a stuff. The only opinions on the matter that mean anything to him are his and Sherlock’s.

So, yeah, he loves him, and he knows that whole high-functioning sociopath, cold, hard, calculating machine façade he likes to present to the rest of the world is exactly that - a façade. But he also knows feelings are a complicated affair for anyone, much less a man-child of nearly forty years old who’s had it drummed into him for over thirty of those years that caring is a weakness, emotions leave you vulnerable and love is the dirtiest four letter word of all.

It’s not that he thinks Sherlock isn’t capable of feeling very deeply; of _loving_ very deeply. He knows firsthand that he is, and while he may wish Sherlock’s love for him was of the eros variety and not the philia (yeah, John went to school, too), he’ll gladly spend the rest of his life as nothing more than just Sherlock’s friend, if that’s all he can be, because he knows there’s nothing ‘just’ about Sherlock’s friendship. It has been the most important of his life. It has been his privilege, his honour, to be Sherlock’s friend.

Right now, however, he has to face the fact that his _best friend_ and not just the man he loves may never love his child. He isn’t worried about her not loving Sherlock. She’s a part of him, and there’s never been a part of John that didn’t love Sherlock. (Not even when he’s wanted to strangle the prick.)

Don’t get him wrong, there’s a huge part of him that thinks Sherlock is going to take one look at Abigail and be instantly and eternally smitten. That’s not just his bias as her father talking, that’s his knowledge of the inner workings of Sherlock’s heart piping up. He’d be lying, though, if he said there wasn’t a tiny part of him anxious that Sherlock will be unable to get past the Morstan, or whatever the hell the second ‘A’ in A.G.R.A stood for, DNA that his daughter carries in her blood. In the very marrow of her _bones_. It terrifies _him_ , and he’s her father. But, as such, he loves her unconditionally. Sherlock doesn’t have that bond with her, much as John would wish it otherwise. He won’t have the undeniable pull of biology driving him to love her, and that scares John. Because if Sherlock can’t love her, may in fact be hurt by her presence in his life, then John is going to have to remove her from Sherlock’s life. That would mean both of them having to leave Baker Street, leave _Sherlock_ , once again, and John isn’t sure he has the strength to endure that separation another time. Yeah, John doesn’t have to be Sherlock to deduce why he couldn’t sleep last night.

He hasn’t much time left to be concerned about it, though, as he is already in a cab on his way to Baker Street, Abigail fast asleep in her carrycot beside him, oblivious to the fact that one meeting with Sherlock Holmes will alter the entire course of her life. _Like father, like daughter_ , John thinks, a dry, tight little smile biting at his lips. He has a bag with the last of his clothes in it with him too, Sherlock and Greg having taken the rest of his stuff back to 221B earlier in the week. There’s a few things of Abigail’s in there as well, but Greg had whispered to him that he didn’t need to fuss too much about baby stuff as Sherlock had gone on a bit of a spending spree round Mothercare and Boots. John would’ve paid good money to see that!

An image of Sherlock up to his knees in baby products, hair wild and eyes even more so, comparing the relative merits of Huggies versus Pampers in the middle of the baby care aisle of their local Boots rises before him then and John snorts. God, the idiot probably bought ten different types of nappies and ran experiments on them to determine which has the best rate of absorbency! (“Well, of course I did, John. How else can we be expected to know which are the best? It’s the Huggies, by the way, in case you were wondering. ‘ _Huggies_ ’. What a ridiculous name. Who comes up with these things? But, yes. The Huggies. Unquestionably so. I ran the tests multiple times. Always pays to be thorough. Proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Science doesn’t lie, John! You can go ahead and say ‘thank you, Sherlock’ any time now, you know,” he could practically hear the mad tosser blathering in his head. “I do not ‘ _blather_ ’, John!”) John sniggers to himself. _Yes, you do._ That happens a lot, he realises. Him hearing Sherlock’s voice in his head. It simultaneously kept him sane and almost drove him crazy during their two years apart.

He also knows Sherlock has been busy making his old room babyproof, turning it into a nursery of sorts. He can’t help but be touched beyond measure by all the trouble Sherlock has taken to make it clear he accepts Abigail as part and parcel of John’s life now and intends to at least try to incorporate her into his own life and home.

Again, he isn’t surprised that Sherlock will try to love her. He saw the look on his face when John had told him her full name that day. Martha Abigail Lucy Watson. John had got to choose it, after all. What with Mary being dead and all. From his bullet to her head. Christ, that was going to be a fun conversation with his daughter, hopefully many, many years from now. He couldn’t think about that now, though. Today was fraught enough as it was. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it. _They_. It’s always the two of them in his head. Him and Sherlock, always together, one way or another. But, yeah, he’d picked those names.

Martha, for Mrs. Hudson, of course. She’s been like a second mother to him; warm, loving, accepting, forgiving, mortifying at times (Sherlock would cite last night as a case in point, no doubt), interfering on occasion, but always out of love. All of those things, and more. He wanted to acknowledge that in the naming of his child.

Then Abigail, the name she will be called everyday, meaning ‘father’s joy’. John can’t think of a better, more apt description for this little beauty beside him. She is the one good thing to have come from his association with the woman who stole another little girl’s name and called herself Mary Morstan. He never wants to hear her referred to as ‘Mary _Watson_ ’ ever again. If he had his way she’d never be referred to again by any name, in any capacity. And he supposes he could have just named his child Joy, but he doesn’t need his former therapist (he should probably give her a call actually, shooting your wife in defence of the man you’re not so secretly in love with most likely constituting a major traumatic experience and everything), or a certain consulting detective for that matter, to tell him that calling her Abigail, ’ _father’s_ joy’, was his way of claiming her as _his_ daughter, not her mother’s. Plus, you know, he thinks it’s a pretty name.

Finally there’s Lucy. He knows the meaning of that one too. Lucy, ‘light’ or ‘bringer of light’. He’d always meant on insisting that that name be included in there somewhere anyway, whether Mary liked it or not, before it had fallen only to him to name his child. Damn whether she liked it or not! There was going to be a nod to Sherlock somewhere in his baby’s name! It was the very least John owed him. Or so he told himself at the time. Now he can admit he likes the way it ties the three of them together. Sherlock, Abigail, and John, Sherlock’s ‘conductor of light’.

He knows Sherlock caught the nod to him. He saw the realisation cross that preternaturally beautiful face, lighting it up from within. Saw the tears shining in those amazing eyes and the trouble Sherlock had speaking round what John surmised was a lump in that pale, delicate throat he longed to nuzzle up to, and he knew Sherlock got it. He also didn’t buy that ridiculous lie about Sherlock’s eyes watering because of a sudden attack of hay fever. Sherlock’s never had hay fever a day in his life, and although, as a doctor, John knows it can manifest at any age, he’s also learnt a fair bit about Sherlock these past years. Still, he didn’t call him on it. He didn’t need to. Seeing how the gesture affected Sherlock was enough for him.

But now the cab is drawing up outside 221B Baker Street and John knows it’s the moment of truth. He pays the cabbie and turns to face the house, pausing a moment to soldier up, taking a deep breath before he opens the door to his past, his present and, hopefully, his future.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t appear. He isn’t sure if that’s because she’s simply popped out for a bit or if she’s being considerate and giving him and Sherlock time to get used to being here together again, but in a new way now. Two grown men who have walked through hell together and come out the other side, and with a baby to boot. No longer just two overgrown schoolboys, giggling in the hallway and arguing over whose turn it is to make the tea. Or maybe she’s still in bed, it still being early, and her worn out after last night’s, ahem, ‘activities’ with Mr. Chatterjee. Sherlock had texted him about those first thing this morning, in very colourful terms of distress that had left John shaking with laughter. Whatever the case, as much as he loves her, he’s glad not to see her right now. This day is about Sherlock and Abigail and John, and how they’re going to navigate this new course life has set them on together. If they can navigate it.

And then he’s up the stairs and Sherlock is there. Eyes wide open as the dressing gown he’s wearing and innocent as the baby John is already placing in his arms, not even waiting until she’s awake. He doesn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock, but he needs to know immediately if this arrangement can work. Because if not, he’ll have to leave right away. The longer he stays the harder it will be to walk away, if he has to. _Please, God, don’t let him have to._

He knows he is babbling as he explains how to support her head and whatnot because even though he needs to know how Sherlock is feeling right now, he’s afraid to let him get a word in edgeways. Afraid in case he says something like, “I’m terribly sorry, John, but I’ve changed my mind.”, or, “Get it away from me! This isn’t going to work! You need to leave. Both of you! NOW!”

But Sherlock doesn’t try to get a word in. Just silently takes John’s child reverently in his arms, eyes like saucers, round and Wedgwood blue in this light (no matter how many times it's happened before John is always astounded by how those eyes can seemingly change colour right before his own), the very image of the proverbial rabbit in the headlights. John holds his breath, like a prisoner awaiting his fate, waiting for Sherlock to deliver his verdict and pass sentence. A lifetime here, with him, or exile to parts unknown.

“Is she supposed to be this…,” Sherlock eventually says after what feels like a fortnight, but in reality is only a minute or so.

“Careful, that’s my daughter you’re talking about,” John interrupts, trying to relieve some of the tension in the room with a joke.

He can tell Sherlock wants to roll his eyes but can’t seem to tear them away from the precious cargo in his arms long enough to do so. _That’s a good sign, right? I mean, he’s not just trying to deduce a baby or something, yeah? Christ, he isn’t, is he?!_

“I was going to say 'small’,” Sherlock continues.

Something else from John’s schooldays pops into his head. “I think some bloke called Shakespeare summed it up best when he said, 'And though she be but little, she is fierce’.”

He feels a smile tug at his lips and adds for good measure, “Well, she’s a Watson, isn’t she? We’re a diminutive clan.”

“Oh, there’s nothing diminutive about you, John Watson,” Sherlock responds, quick as lightning and just as breathtaking, turning to John with that smile. The one John loves best and knows is only for him. With those eyes (aquamarine now and that’s just not bloody fair, expecting anyone, much less John who spends half his life, it feels like, staring into them, to be able to resist the temptation to drown in their depths) that see everything he is, for good or ill, and accepts it all without question, without reservation.

John knows he is blushing, but, honestly, who wouldn’t be with the full focus of Sherlock Holmes’ attention upon them? Their eyes lock, as they have done so many times before, and John feels that old familiar crackle in the air around them whenever they look at each other like this. _Why are they always looking at each other like this??_ This is not how two simple friends look at each other. John _knows_ this. The question is, does Sherlock?

Abigail stirs then. Sherlock turns his attention back to her and John sees it, the exact moment Sherlock realises he not only **can** love this little girl in his arms, but already does! Dear God above, John thinks he might cry, with relief and happiness and pure, unadulterated love for the two treasured people in front of him, who combined are the sum total of everything he’s ever wanted.

Visions of a future he wishes they could have together flash before him. Bedtime stories read in a warm, rich baritone that soothes both John and Abigail alike. 'The Three Little Pigs’, with Sherlock, John and Abigail in the leading roles (Sherlock would be the one clever enough to build his house from bricks, of course), just the three of them against the Big Bad Wolf (Mycroft, probably, in Sherlock’s reading of the tale). Pigtails, piggy banks and piggyback rides. He hears Sherlock’s voice in his head again then, gently teasing this time, _Really, John, there’s an awful lot of pigs in your visions of the future_. He tells himself it’s because they will fly before any of it comes to pass. He suspects it’s more to do with the pair of Winnie the Pooh and Piglet cuddly toys Greg told him Sherlock turned up at a crime scene with one day, allegedly muttering something about, “best friends shouldn’t be separated”, and, “small of stature but with the biggest of hearts”, when Donovan had challenged him on what the hell the pink fluffy thing peeking out of his coat pocket was. John can see them now from where he stands, two brightly-coloured little teddy bears, perched jauntily atop of cushions, one in Sherlock’s armchair and one in his. Winnie in Sherlock’s, of course - well, he’s always loved honey and been known to forget his trousers on occasion - and Piglet in John’s. Although there are days when he knows Eeyore would be more fitting.

More visions issue forth then. John, down on one knee, determined to do it properly this time, asking because he wants to, _needs_ to, and not just because he thinks he should, the most important question he'll ever ask bursting from him. Sherlock doing that rapid blinking thing he does with his eyes every time John surprises him before the words, “Yes. Of course I'll marry you, John. Of _course_ I will,” rush over his lips in their haste to be heard. Vowing to love, honour and cherish (“I'm not promising to obey you, Sherlock! Get that through your head right now!”) and meaning every word.

A baby with the sniffles, a bigger baby with the man flu and John taking care of them both. Ballet recitals. Or kickboxing classes. Whatever. Birthday parties with ice cream and jelly, games of Pass the Parcel and Sherlock deducing all the gifts before Abigail opens a single one. Matching Father’s Day cards for him and Sherlock. Christmas mornings gathered round the tree as they take turns opening presents before heading to Granny and Grampa Holmes’ for dinner, Nana Hudson in tow. Well, if Mr. Chatterjee hasn’t made her wife number three by then. Saturdays wandering around IKEA listening to Sherlock whine about how he could be in the mortuary perfecting his technique with a riding crop right about now (John’s not even going to touch that one), Sundays playing in the park. A dog, maybe. He's noticed how Sherlock lights up around them, no matter how hard he tries to look stern and hide his boyish grin as they wag their tails at him and try to lick him all over (nope, not touching that one either).

Noise neither he or Sherlock will ever consider to be music. Rows about staying out late and inappropriate attire. Boys. And/or girls. No more denial, remember? That doesn’t just go for him. He’ll be damned if he’ll ever lose his daughter over something as unimportant as what gender she’s attracted to. Finally bringing that one special person home to meet the parents (okay, so he’s the jealous type, polyamory’s never going to be his cup of tea and if she’s anything like him it’ll never be Abigail’s either). Him and Sherlock giving them the once over to see if they’re good enough for their little girl. _Their_ little girl. Walking her up the aisle, maybe. (Down the aisle? He’ll have to remember to ask Sherlock which it is.) Both of them, one on either side, beaming with pride as they give her away. Tears in their eyes as they watch her commit her life to someone the way they committed theirs to each other. Grandkids, perhaps.

Then he almost laughs as he returns to the here and now and the image before him gives rise to another iconic one. Sherlock, in his long, blue robe, staring down at this babe in his arms, face loving, lovely and _rapt_ , as the serene baby smiles beatifically up at him. The Madonna and Child; the Virgin and the Baby. And, yeah, okay, John doesn’t know for sure Sherlock’s a virgin, but he has a pretty strong hunch, especially now he knows that whole Janine thing (shudder) was just a sham. If there’s a somewhat selfish, possessive part of him that hopes he is, that hopes no one else has ever touched Sherlock in that way before, well, that’s his business. Look, he never said he was perfect, okay?  
  
But then the urge to laugh and psychoanalyse himself subsides as he realises Sherlock has started to weep. John asks if he is all right, only to be brushed off with a brusque, “Of course I am, John. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Well, this is awkward. John finds it difficult, this sort of stuff. He perseveres regardless.

“Well, it’s just, er … it’s just that you’re crying, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock replies, haughty and dismissive, “I’m not cry… Oh.”

John smiles to himself as he sees Sherlock’s face suffuse with colour and he tries that ridiculous lie about hay fever again.

“Yeah, 'course, that must be it. Nothing to do with that little girl you’re holding in your arms as gently as if she were made of crystal and as fiercely as if she were a lifeline,” John grins.

The grin fades as he carefully ponders his next words before taking a tiny step closer to Sherlock. Sherlock needs to hear what he has to say, has to be made to understand the truth of it.

“I never really forgave her, forgave Mary, for what she did to you, Sherlock. You know that, don’t you? I need you to know that. I only went back for…”

“The baby. Yes, John, I know. And I wouldn’t expect anything less of you. You wouldn’t abandon _any_ child, much less your own, to an assassin.”

John feels his heart swell within him as he hears how much faith Sherlock has in him and he knows Sherlock _does_ know, has always known. And understands. But still he needs to say something more, to apologise, even if Sherlock deems it unnecessary.

  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry about everything.”

It’s the truth, God knows it’s the truth, but there’s another John has to make plain.

“But I can’t be sorry for her,” he adds, head tilting in his daughter’s direction. He isn’t prepared for the words that fall from Sherlock’s mouth ( _oh, God, that mouth_ ) in response.

“No, I rather find I can’t either.”

John is incredulous, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, or so it feels, and he laughs, almost not daring to believe it.

“Already?” he asks.

Sherlock is so caught up in Abigail he doesn’t seem to follow the question and sounds confused as he asks, “Hmm? Already what?”

“You’ve only just met and already she’s muscled her way into that heart you claim not to have and sent you head over heels into love at first sight.“

John hadn’t expected to hear Sherlock’s previous statement about not being sorry for Abigail, but _nothing_ could have prepared him for the next.

“Well, she takes after her father, doesn’t she?”

John can’t have heard that right, can he? Because there’s no way Sherlock _bloody gorgeous,_ _brilliant, love of John’s life **Holmes**_ actually just implied (no, _more_ than implied) that he had fallen in love at first sight with him, John Watson, former army doctor and (apparently) conductor of light! _Right?!_

John stares at Sherlock, willing him to look up so he can see his eyes and get a read on him, but Sherlock resolutely refuses to look anywhere but at Abigail. The silence stretches out between them like No Man’s Land, both sides keeping their heads down for fear of taking incoming fire. Straight through the heart most likely. Well, he’s the soldier, John thinks, he should be the one to clamber over the barricades, brave the minefield, storm the enemy. Except Sherlock isn’t his enemy, this silence is, and, damn it, he can’t think of a single thing to say to break it. Thankfully Sherlock can.

“I think she likes me, John. Do you think she likes me?”

Suddenly John knows exactly what to say. It may not be poetry, but it’s the truth, and he knows which Sherlock values more.

“I think she loves you. But, like you said, she takes after her father.”

He almost giggles then as he sees Sherlock register what he has just said and, oh, how he wishes he could have caught that on camera! Maybe he’ll ask Mycroft if he really does have any set up in Baker Street because that reaction is something he would like to revel in again and again. Surprise, shock, disbelief, something akin to awe and wonderment and, at last, happiness all flit across Sherlock’s face and John needs to be kissing him _now_.

“Put her down,” he hears himself say, voice low and commanding.

He sees Sherlock startle. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No. Just put her down a minute.”

“I’m not sure I know how,” Sherlock admits.

“Just support her head as you lay her in the carrycot,” John explains, as patiently as he can manage, given the fact he’s finally about to kiss the lips that have haunted his dreams and every waking moment for almost seven years now.

“No, I mean I don’t think I know how to let her out of my arms ever again.”

And John could melt at that, he really could, but he needs to be in Sherlock’s arms first. So instead he says, “Not even to let me in them?”

Sherlock’s reaction is so comical John once again wishes he was getting all this on camera. He smiles and, yeah, he can admit there’s a touch of smugness there, mixed in with all the love and affection and fondness. Because Sherlock Holmes wants John Watson in his arms too. Wants to hold him and kiss him and love him and being loved by the mad, brilliant, beautiful genius that is Sherlock Holmes would make anyone a little smug.

John watches as Sherlock turns to put Abigail in her carrycot, infinitely gentle with her, and he feels his feet move of their own volition towards this impossible man who has saved his life so many times, in so many ways, over and over again. When Sherlock turns to face him again John is practically on top of him already. He was trained by the British Army, don't forget. He knows how to get close to a target. How to take them down. And Sherlock Holmes is going down, evading capture all these years, but John's now. Finally, completely, forever John's. _Only_ John's. (What? He's already admitted he's the jealous type and there are just some things he refuses to share.)

“Come here,” he hears himself growl ( _What the hell was that?? Did I just growl?? See what you do to me, Sherlock Holmes, you ridiculous, sublime man?_ ), the time for waiting over at last, pining a thing of the past now.

His arms slip around Sherlock as easily as if they’ve done it a thousand times before, and not just in his dreams. One hand snakes up into those raven dark, dove soft curls as his lips find that Cupid’s bow, Cupid’s arrow having found its mark in him long ago, and, blimey, has he ever really kissed anyone before because this is a whole different ballgame! His legs feel like jelly, his stomach is performing a gymnastics routine Nadia Comaneci would be proud of, his heart is going like the clappers, and, seriously, it’d be embarrassing if he was the one who fainted right now!

When they are forced to draw apart to breathe, still clinging to each other, John is happy to note he is not the only one panting and trembling. He says the first thing that comes to mind once he has developed the power of speech again.

“Well, that works.”

“Did you ever doubt it wouldn’t?” Sherlock enquires imperiously, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow.

John thinks a moment, feels a slow smile making its way across his face.

“No, I guess I didn’t,” he confesses. “Somehow I always knew we could be great together.”

“We _are_ great together, John, in every conceivable way. This is just another one of those ways.”

John cannot find the words to express how he feels about that statement so he just smiles, nods and goes in for another kiss, transcribing every iota of love he has into it and hoping Sherlock will decode the message. Another thought strikes him as they come up for air again and the words are out of him before he knows it.

“What would you say to Mike Stamford?”

He sees the confusion on Sherlock’s face as he catches him off guard and he replies falteringly, “Um … Thank … you?”

“No,” John answers, rolling his eyes in amusement, before taking in what Sherlock has said and the truth of it and reconsidering, “Well, yes. We should probably send him a thank you card or something.”

“But what I meant was,” he continues, “what would you say to Mike Stamford as godfather to our daughter?”

Oh, Jesus. He hadn’t meant to say that. _Our daughter._ Well, okay, maybe he had, subconsciously. It was how he felt, after all, in his heart, but what if it wasn’t how Sherlock felt, was too presumptuous and pressurising, made him want to bolt?

His heart clenches in fear, but just as quickly unclenches as he sees Sherlock beam from ear to ear and start to cry again, but it’s those happy tears, he can tell.

“I say, I told him I needed a flatmate and he found me a friend, a family and a future. As fairy godfathers go I don’t think _our daughter_ could ask for better,” Sherlock intones in that honeyed voice of his, as he leans in for the tenderest of kisses.

 _Our daughter._ John marvels once again at the effect two simple words from Sherlock can have on his heartbeat. _Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. Not dead. Our daughter._

_**Our** daughter._

He knows which two words he can’t wait to hear pass these lips he’s kissing (lips he knows he’ll never get enough of now he’s finally had a taste at long last) in the very near future, decent mourning period be damned. Who cares about decent? It doesn’t matter now that John himself has already said those two words before. Because he said them to the wrong person. He said them to the liar in the white dress to his left, but they always really belonged to the man in the matching morning suit to his right. _I do_ , John thinks to himself. _Oh, God, yes. I really, really do._

And as his eyes slip closed to allow him to glory in the sensation he’s sure he’ll never get bored of, the man he’ll never get bored of, John hears their daughter gurgle what sounds like her approval and thinks how cute she’ll look at her fathers’ wedding.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, again! Thanks for reading. I hope it wasn't too terrible an experience for you! Like I said at the start, this turned into a real labour of love for me, but I do love John (and Sherlock!) so it was labour I didn't mind performing (well, much!). I hope you thought it was worth it too and found some enjoyment here. Don't be shy, come say hi, here in the comments section, or on tumblr where I'm also known as novemberhush. Thanks, again. Until the next time, take care of yourself. xxx


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